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Forget reaching the pinnacle of his career by being named England captain for the upcoming Rugby World Cup. Losing his mum with so little warning had rocked him hard, and Mark had said he’d never taken the time to process it.
    How the fuck did you process something like that? She was his mum . His biggest supporter. His best mate, in many ways. And the way she’d robbed him of an opportunity to say goodbye, or to try to make things better for her at the end...
    His throat seized up. He drew in a shaky breath and made up his mind. Alone time was the last thing he wanted.

Chapter Three
    A shadow fell over Tess’s book, and she glanced up at the backlit man standing above her. Shading her eyes with one hand, she could just make out his features. Not that she needed to see his face to know who he was. Golden hair covered his calves and thighs, which looked flexed even though he was standing at ease. His body filled out a short-sleeved linen shirt and cotton shorts in a way that dried the spit from her mouth. She’d seen countless photos of him on the rugby pitch, frozen midstride with his left foot firmly planted in the grass and the right drawn back to boot the ball through the posts. His muscular definition had seemed impressive, but nothing compared to the reality.
    “Morning,” he said.
    “Uh, you missed morning by about six hours. What have you been doing today?”
    “Sleeping.”
    She couldn’t tell it by looking at him. His eyelids still drooped as though he were fighting off the snooze fairy, and his dark shadows hadn’t disappeared. “Sleep well?”
    “Like the dead.” He dropped to his bum next to her, stretching his legs out and kicking a bit of sand into her book. She shook it out and sat up, crossing her legs.
    “I just ordered dinner. Thought you looked hungry out here. Wanna join me?”
    He thought she looked hungry? She knew she was thin, but comments like that weren’t necessary. “No, thanks. I gorged myself on wheat germ last night. That’ll keep me going for a few days.”
    His brows drew together. “You have eaten since then, right? I mean, you’re not...going without food or anything, are you?”
    Jesus, first he told her she looked hungry and now he’s made it clear she might be starving herself. “It was a joke. I eat plenty. I just have a fast metabolism.”
    He held up his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. I just wanted to make sure.”
    No, it wasn’t okay. He’d stomped on her last nerve, one that’d been frayed thin by City boys calling her Titless Tess and, once they’d discovered her blog, Scrawny-Arsed Bitch. “Look, mate, just because I don’t resemble the women you typically date doesn’t mean I have an eating disorder. I have a fast metabolism, and I do quite a bit of exercise. As for my chest, you’ll just have to blame genetics.”
    His cheeks flushed dark red and he stared at her through too-perceptive eyes. “How do you know what the women I date look like?”
    Shite. “Look at you. Educated guess.” It was more than that, though. She’d seen pictures. Lots of them. But she waved her hand in the vicinity of his chest to try to give credence to her lie. “I bet you like tall women with shampoo-commercial hair, thighs that could crush coconuts and breasts that could keep the Titanic afloat. Am I right?”
    “You got all that just by looking at me?”
    “Why are you surprised? Last night you nailed why I didn’t end up skinny-dipping. You’re not the only perceptive one around here.”
    He turned his attention away from her, bracing himself on his elbows and contemplating the water that splashed gently against the shore. After a few moments, he said, “Do you like sport?”
    “Some. I play racquetball with friends twice a week, I do Pilates, and I cycle to work every day.” Or, she used to, back when she had a job.
    “But you don’t watch any sport?”
    Right...he was trying to figure out if she’d recognized him. Should she ’fess up or keep the